


Limbless

by baeyato (Dalliance)



Category: Tokyo Ghoul
Genre: Gen, M/M, ayakane - Freeform, dumb title! let me die, in a more mentor-like way. idk ill figure this out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-01
Updated: 2015-08-01
Packaged: 2018-04-12 09:14:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4473665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dalliance/pseuds/baeyato
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It organizes the senseless mechanics of this world into piles; those that are discarded, and those that are kept. Aogiri is a stepping stone. Touka is his last obligation. The one-eyed ghoul is a discard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Limbless

**Author's Note:**

> I like the potentials of Kaneki and Ayato's dynamics. Ayato is one of my favorite characters and I think his intentions are often misunderstood, and Kaneki's is reduced to a one-sided idea of a person rather than remembered for who he actually is. Though, at the moment, Ayato's intentions haven't been revealed that much, even in tg:re, I've come to my own conclusions. I don't know what I am doing with this, so don't look too deeply into it. Consider these distraction pieces. I write what comes to me.

It would be simpler if he could be called a megalomaniac--self-apologist, bigot, or psychopath.

Instead, Ayato always seems to fall under the umbrella term spoiled _brat._

That general tagalong pairs with his charming attitude and dirty-mouth. What they do not understand is that this is him being strong, _convincing_ himself he is strong. It is his way, and subsequently the only right way because just as the world enjoys its labels, he survives by separating people between _important_ and _expendable_.

It organizes the senseless mechanics of this world into piles; those that are discarded, and those that are kept.

Aogiri is a stepping stone.

Touka is his last obligation.

The one-eyed ghoul is a discard.

His process is simple and there are always those who insist on complicating it.

“ ** _Ayato_**.”

He expects it to be from someone he knows about to threaten him with forceful discharge. That would be familiar, if boring. Aogiri is larger than him, though he acts as if the world is a small bug he can smash beneath his steps. Its branches reach into every ward, and his hands grasp beneath that influence but recognize the limit of testing such a complex idea with his own arrogance. Those are the sorts of roots he cannot understand with a borderline God Complex. Even that to a degree is faked like a well-worn mask.

He does not turn around, and keeps eyes trained toward his feet. This is pointless because being ejected from Aogiri is the equivalent of a death sentence in a society that persecutes ghouls, but his opening mouth is always as young as his common sense.

“Are you going to do somethin’ about it?”

Ayato digs his heel into the ground and quirks an eyebrow, not bothering to stand. Not yet. He’s always testing the waters and baiting death, just as he balances on the balls of his feet. This is always his method of hiding. He presses his wrist closer to his chest. Agitation overshadows the twinging pain of a smashed bone, he still tastes his own blood on his tongue, and he is even to a degree disconnected to that pain. It always fades, and they are all used to that convenience. His father’s voice penetrates between irritation.

We are not all that different from humans, Ayato.

_Why isn’t it **healing** —_

White hair shines only under a low moon. Dark eyes glance over him crouched beneath stairs, mere glass reflections receiving information of the person--no, object--in front of them. Far different from the sniveling waste he shoved his foot into until bones cracked, and he pretends that impression has not altered to fit this version. Not when something in their eyes puts him on guard. This is more than casual appraisal from a subordinate, and Ayato is stiffening under their gaze.

 “Fuck off, half-breed,” he spits, and wrings his wrist as if crushing it further can press cartilage and sinew back in its place. He starts to stand as if both his legs are not throbbing with open wounds _still--_

Forget the fact this one broke 103 of his bones on what he perceived as a whim. Ayato only recalls 64 of them snapping, but he would never admit to the blackout. They would have to murder him first before he cried out that confession. Veins crawl along skin when his mind revolts before he does, cornea fading and iris deepening to red as his kagune pulses weakly against his shoulder blade. Kaneki would never take that sort of bait to fight, and Ayato is always about appearances. Similar to a wild animal opening its mouth to flash a row of teeth without attacking.

“—not at all--”

Swimming the expanse of his own rapid thought, Ayato eyes Kaneki when the last of that sentence joins the ring of pain swirling across his body. His ukaku edges only fade as concentration sways. Then dissipates completely.

“What did you say?” He struggles to stand— _why does he struggle to stand, he eats more than the fuckin’ lot of these pathetic parasites—_ and leans against the wall. Pushing off again when Kaneki’s eyes stray toward the lacerations across calves. Whole areas of skin torn away. Glaring bone pale as the strands of their hair.

Ayato could say much more than the bile of insults crawling up his throat. It burns, and that heat of attempting to escape control expels in violence and rash decisions. Kaneki represents his fragile position. The weak fall, and the strong survive. He forces himself to stand with half his leg still healing from the earlier ambush. Kaneki does not look away, or even opens his own mouth. Their ages are not all that different, and what truly pries them apart is experience. Some part of Ayato recognizes, and despises that difference, too distracted to react.

“You’re not healing quickly enough,” they finally decide to voice, as if that's what they said the first time, still focused on Ayato’s wounds. The younger feels immobilized by more than heavy battle damage. Kaneki abandoned a portion of themselves with Jason, but their glaring humanity is what speaks to him now and it silences any retort when their eyes meet his. “I think you heard me fine, Ayato-kun.”

Suggestions follow that. Something about re-routing to another location before the second wave. _Eat more_ , Ayato- _kun_. Empty of familiarity, but still lingering with memory of their initial meeting. The honorific sounding more like an unwanted habit on their tongue (not the pointed reminder its meant to be), they turn their head away. Footsteps fade, and his curled fists tremble at sides.

He stands there too long, until his wounds have healed and he’s festering in nothing but his own silence. What he tried so hard to hide, the half-ghoul peered directly through.

* * *

 

_"You’re not at all strong like Touka described."_

* * *

 


End file.
